


Watch the Chemicals React

by lincyclopedia



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - America, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Chemistry, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, POV First Person, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincyclopedia/pseuds/lincyclopedia
Summary: Simon and Baz are seniors in college and lab partners in a chemistry class for non-science majors. Baz, who’s friends with Agatha, hates Simon because Simon is Agatha’s ex. At least, Baz hates Simon until Baz accidentally pours hydrochloric acid on himself and Simon handles the situation very well.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	Watch the Chemicals React

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up, Baz is pretty judgmental and elitist in this. That’s what he’s like in canon, too, especially at the beginning, which is why I’m writing him that way. Baz’s views here don’t represent mine. Also, I haven’t taken chemistry in eight years, and even then it wasn’t at a very high level, so I’m kind of making up what I think a university lab course would be like. Obviously, if you accidentally get hydrochloric acid on yourself, follow your lab’s protocol, as I’m not sure whether I got it right for this fic. Title from the Aly and AJ song “Chemicals React,” which is a pretty perfect song for this fic, honestly.

I’m sitting alone at a two-person lab station, and the professor has just started talking, when _he_ walks in. He glances around the room, so I do, too, and that’s when I realize—fuck. The only empty space is the seat next to me. I still spend half a second hoping that he’ll magically find somewhere else to sit, but . . . no dice. He stumbles over to me and sits down. 

Okay, then. I’ll just need to get here early next class and sit next to someone else, so that he won’t be able to sit next to me. I’m not keen on that idea, admittedly, because this is one of the classes at the university that’s open to anyone—I usually take all my classes through the honors college, but there was no way I was going to manage to keep my GPA up if I took an honors course for my lab credit, so here I am—and it’s not like I enjoy intentionally affiliating with the riff raff, but anyone is better than _him_. 

He and I have never spoken, admittedly. I know who he is because he dated my friend Agatha for a few months our first year. The two of them weren’t together for long enough for Agatha to bring him to any tennis team parties, but he came to a few of our matches and screamed obnoxiously through pretty much the entirety of Agatha’s sets. It threw off everyone’s concentration, which he never seemed to realize, and it was easy to start hating him. 

I am, admittedly, pretty sure I know what Agatha saw in him. He’s got these bronze curls and blue eyes and golden skin, and he glows in that stereotypical all-American way. He’s my type, honestly, or at least he might be if he weren’t such a loud, bumbling oaf. I haven’t told Agatha this, of course. I don’t know whether she’d be delighted or horrified to find out we have the same type. Although, to be honest, I’m not sure he _is_ her type. Their relationship was pretty short, and Agatha and I have had a few conversations about the asexual/aromantic spectrum and whether she might be on it. 

Anyway, the professor hands out syllabi and then announces that the person we’re sitting next to will be our lab partner until midterms, at which point we’ll be reassigned. 

What. 

_What._

I almost raise my hand to challenge the policy before realizing I’ll just make a fool of myself without actually managing to change anything. The professor gives us a minute to introduce ourselves to our new lab partners, so I reluctantly turn in my seat. 

He’s got a hand out for me to shake, and he’s _smiling_. “I’m Simon Snow,” he says. 

I frown at him and don’t take his hand. “I know.” 

His eyebrows cinch together. “Huh? How?”

I roll my eyes. “You dated Agatha our first year.” 

“Oh, right,” he says, withdrawing his hand. His voice is suddenly cold. “You’re Baz the tennis guy.” 

I’m still formulating a response to that when the professor calls our attention back to herself. When class ends, Simon shoves his stuff haphazardly into his backpack and is out the door before I’ve even finished putting my notebook, folder, planner, and pencil case back in their designated spots in my bag. 

It looks like it’s going to be a long semester. 

It certainly starts that way—Simon has such a tendency to knock over beakers and test tubes that I ban him from working with corrosive chemicals, for everyone’s sake—but then one day, when I’m exhausted from the previous night’s tennis tournament and running on literally nothing but coffee and spite, I start pouring hydrochloric acid into a beaker and just keep pouring. It overflows out of the top of the beaker and then runs down onto my fingers, which are holding the beaker. 

Fuck. 

Shit. 

My skin feels like it’s on fire. 

I drop the beaker, which shatters on the tile floor and splashes hydrochloric acid onto Simon’s and my pants and shoes. At least it’s cold enough that neither of us is wearing shorts. Simon takes a careful, deliberate step forward; removes the container of hydrochloric acid from my other hand before I can drop that, too; and then takes hold of my shoulders and steers me toward the nearest sink, which is admittedly just a couple of steps away. Then he turns on the water, grabs my wrist, and guides my acid-burned hand under the tap. Only then, when my hand is screaming in pain but I’m pretty sure, intellectually, that I’m safe, does Simon call out, “Professor Possibelf! Baz accidentally poured hydrochloric acid on his hand!” 

Professor Possibelf bustles over to our lab station, surveys the situation, and says, “Do you feel the acid through your pants, either of you?”

I shake my head as Simon says, “No.” 

“That’s good,” says Professor Possibelf. “Step one is to keep Baz’s hand under the water for at least 15 minutes. I’ll get you some soap that will help. Then I want you both to change pants, and then you should both go to the Student Health Service and have your legs looked at, and Baz’s hand, too, obviously.” 

Before we can respond, Professor Possibelf has turned on her heel and started speed-walking to the front of the room. Just as quickly, she’s back, picking her way through the spilled acid and broken glass to set some soap on the edge of the sink. 

“Simon,” she says. “You should go change your pants.” 

“Oh, I thought I should stay with Baz—” he starts, and I stare at him.

“I’ll make sure he’s okay,” says Professor Possibelf. “Go take care of yourself.” 

Simon nods, seeming reluctant, and navigates through the acid and glass on his way out of the room. When he’s gone, Professor Possibelf calls out to Gareth, our TA, to come clean up the mess I made. If I weren’t in so much pain and didn’t need to keep one hand in the sink, I’d be fighting the urge to hide my face in my hands. I’m _never_ this careless. And Simon wants to take care of me? What alternate universe have I stepped into? 

A little over ten minutes later, Simon is back, wearing a slightly lighter pair of jeans, and I’m absolutely certain I’m in an alternate universe, especially because he beelines for me and starts asking if I’m okay. 

My first instinct, whenever anyone asks me that question, is to snap, _I’m fine_ , but I’m in a little too much pain to lie this time. “My hand hurts,” I say instead. 

“Yeah,” says Simon. “I’m pretty sure it’s been 15 minutes since I got your hand under the water, so do you want to head to the Health Service?”

“Class isn’t over,” I point out. 

“Professor Possibelf didn’t tell us to wait until class was over,” Simon counters. “And it’s not like we can finish the experiment, anyway.” 

“Fine,” I grumble. 

Simon turns off the tap, and we head out the door. My hand hurts a little less than it did initially, but only a little; it’s still excruciating. 

“What’s your major?” Simon asks as we walk down the hall. 

“English,” I say. Then I add, “I’m in the honors college.” 

“Ah,” says Simon. “Of course you are. Put off your lab credit as long as possible, like the rest of us?”

That coaxes a smile out of me. “Yeah. What’s your major?”

“Math,” says Simon, surprising me. I would’ve expected him to be in Exercise Science or Business or one of those things all the football players take. Not that I even know whether he’s a football player. He’s just kind of built like one. “I’m not in the honors college,” Simon continues, “because my high school grades in English and history were always pretty bad, but I’m good with numbers.” 

“I’m not,” I admit. “I can analyze Shakespeare with the best of them, but anything STEM and I’m out.” 

We exit the building—Simon holds the door for me—and start walking in the direction of the Health Service. Simon shrugs. “To each their own, I guess.” Then he takes a deep breath and asks, “Did you ever wind up dating Agatha?”

I do a double take and stop walking. “ _What?_ ”

Simon shrugs again, stopping a few feet ahead of me and turning to face me. “You two would hang out before matches and stuff, even when I came to watch Agatha. And she talked about you a lot. I figured you were the reason she broke up with me.” 

I do not understand how he could have gotten things so wrong. “Simon, I’m _gay_.” 

“ . . . Oh.” 

That’s such a non-response that I’m suddenly a little worried. It’s been a while since I had a bad coming-out experience, and I’d forgotten just exactly how awful that felt. The hydrochloric acid isn’t helping. “Is that going to be a problem?” I ask in my harshest voice, and I resume walking.

“What? Oh, God, no, definitely not,” Simon yelps, falling into step beside me. “No, I’m not—I don’t have a problem with that. I was just a little surprised that the guy I thought was dating my ex is . . . very much not dating my ex.” 

I calm down. “Okay.” 

“So, do you still play tennis?” Simon asks after a long, awkward silence. 

“Yeah, of course,” I scoff. “So does Agatha. She’s captain of the women’s team this year and I’m captain of the men’s team.” 

“Oh,” says Simon. “Good for her. For both of you.” 

“Are you an athlete?” I ask, since it seems polite and I’d rather have a conversation than deal with more awkward silence.

“Yeah. Fencing.” 

“Seriously?” I ask. 

“What do you mean, ‘seriously’?” Simon demands. 

“That’s just . . . not the vibe you give off. I thought you played football or something.” 

Simon scrunches up his face. “I give off a _football vibe_? Gross.”

“Yeah,” I agree. 

Simon makes as if to shove me, but then he stops with one hand on my shoulder, not applying any force. “How’s your hand?” he asks, his voice suddenly soft. 

“Still hurts,” I admit. 

Simon holds the door open for me as we enter the Student Health Service. We both check in, and it’s decided that I should be seen immediately, given the state of my hand, but Simon can probably wait his turn. The waiting room isn’t particularly full, but there are a few students there, scrolling through their phones. Simon takes a seat, and as I follow a nurse back to an exam room, I can’t help looking back one last time at Simon. 

He waves to me. 

He’s exactly my type. 

Fuck.


End file.
